


So True A Fool Is Love

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Beating, Canon Era, Humiliation, M/M, Nudity, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shakespearean Sonnets, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:38:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Being your slave, what should I do but tend <br/>Upon the hours and times of your desire? <br/>I have no precious time at all to spend, <br/>Nor services to do, till you require. <br/>Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour<br/>Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,<br/>Nor think the bitterness of absence sour <br/>When you have bid your servant once adieu; <br/>Nor dare I question with my jealous thought <br/>Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, <br/>But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought<br/>Save, where you are how happy you make those.<br/>   So true a fool is love that in your will,<br/>   Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill."</p><p>-Sonnet 57</p>
            </blockquote>





	So True A Fool Is Love

**Author's Note:**

> For a kink meme prompt. This isn't precisely dub-con, but it's also not in any way healthy kink and not intended to be. It's undernegotiated (possibly unnegotiated), canon-era, plays with self-esteem in weird ways, and is probably more sad than sexy.
> 
> Comments appreciated!

It’s not like Grantaire expected any different.

Enjolras was clear about this from the beginning of their arrangement. “I do not have the time for a lover, much less for a romance,” he said in that first conversation. But he found his chastity had begun to chafe, and was becoming more of a distraction than anything else. He was thinking, he said, near-constantly of low things, matters of the flesh, and he wondered if Grantaire might be willing to help him relieve that.

He offered, and Grantaire took without hesitation. He knew how badly it would scar his heart, to have Enjolras’ body and never his love, never his self, but he could not bring himself to care. 

They went off to bed, and found they were as natural a fit there as they could never be elsewhere. Enjolras wanted devotion, attention, worship, and Grantaire was only too happy to give. He gave him all of that, and would have given him more as well. 

So Grantaire has a role in his life. He plays the taken, la femme, the catamite. He would add the Greek as well and call himself Enjolras’ eromenos were he not afraid of the presumptiveness of the translation. He would never think to say that he is Enjolras’ beloved, in English, French, Latin, Greek, or any other tongue. 

The only thing he is to Enjolras is a body to be used. Like any other tool, he waits patiently on his master’s disposition. 

It pleases Enjolras to have Grantaire need him. 

He’s not sure why Enjolras feels the need to emphasize this. Grantaire would happily wait on his every wish anyway, hang on his words, kiss his feet. But Enjolras has a certain predilection for making Grantaire suffer, wait, want.

And Grantaire cannot deny him anything. 

At the end of the day’s meeting, Enjolras had put a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire freezes, memorizing the precious moment. That touch, that hand. He could have lived on that alone for months.

Enjolras’ voice was an insistent murmur in his ear— a secret, but also a command.

“Meet me at my rooms. I need to meet with Combeferre, but I want you waiting for me.”

Grantaire knows what that means. He’s been naked on his knees for an hour or so now, waiting.

He wonders if Enjolras understands how unnecessary this show is. He sees the appeal for him— knowing Grantaire is waiting for his command, ready for anything. Yet what he doesn’t know is that Grantaire always is. He could approach him on the boulevard as readily as he can in his own bedroom and Grantaire would be thinking, like as not, of nothing but him.

It’s not an easy wait. 

Oh, he’s not a jealous lover. Not at all. He knows that Enjolras and Combeferre are closer than he and Enjolras will ever be. It’s unlikely that they’re going to bed together— Grantaire doubts that Enjolras would do these sordid things with someone he thinks so highly of. No, he has Grantaire for that. But Combeferre has a part of him Grantaire never will. His trust, his friendship, his respect— where Grantaire sees only the parts of Enjolras that he is ashamed of in himself.

Yet Grantaire worships even his darkest side. Even this, which Enjolras hates in himself, Grantaire adores. 

The door creaks open. Grantaire looks down. He recognizes Enjolras’ boots, worn black leather. He doesn’t try and look at his face, although he thinks Enjolras is the most beautiful thing in the world. That isn’t his place— he belongs here, at his master’s feet, if he’s lucky enough to be allowed that much.

He is not such a liar that he will pretend to himself that the thought doesn’t arouse him as well. 

Yes, he likes this. He’d do it even if he didn’t, for the pleasure of serving Enjolras, but it stirs something within himself.

Enjolras doesn’t speak to him. He stands still, though, and Grantaire knows to take that as permission. He leans forward, kissing the toe of each of Enjolras’ boots. He’d done it on impulse, the first time, but it’s become a ritual now. Enjolras likes any way Grantaire can find to show his debasement.

When he’s pressed his lips reverently to each of the boots, and then to the ground between Enjolras’ feet, he keeps his head there, lowered, low. Enjolras goes to his chair, sitting down, flipping through the pages of a book. Grantaire isn’t sure whether it’s a show, or whether he is honestly just disinterested. 

After a few minutes, he says, “You can come here. I want to put my feet up.”

Obediently— always obediently— Grantaire crawls to him, kneeling back down so Enjolras can rest his booted feet on his back.

In addition to the sheer degradation of it, it’s a surprisingly painful position. Enjolras’ boots are heavy, digging into the tender naked skin of his back, and pressing his knees and hands forcefully against the ground.

He wonders idly if Enjolras is hurting him on purpose, if he even considers Grantaire’s discomfort.

He hopes not.

It works this way, in this strange dance they do together. Enjolras doesn’t care about Grantaire, and Grantaire worships Enjolras, and it works.

He’s not sure how long Enjolras has him kneel there, but after a while he’s jostled back to attention by one of those boots kicking him in the side, not too hard.

“Go out and get me some supper. I’m hungry.” 

Grantaire doesn’t look up, but kneels up a little. “May—“

“Do you have permission to speak?”

Grantaire shakes his head, and then blushes.

“Well, you might as well ask. I’ll punish you for your lapse later.”

He shivers a little. He loves and hates the punishments that Enjolras doles out. “May I dress before I go?”

Enjolras pauses. “That wasn’t a very respectful way to ask.”

“Master, would you please allow your slave to dress first?” They’ve talked about making it a permanent change, requiring Grantaire to use that kind of humble speech whenever they’re together like this. It’s hard for Grantaire, who loves to talk freely, without thinking at all, to be so cautious of his words. He might love it all the more for that. 

“All right. And you may get some supper for yourself, while you’re gone. You have twenty minutes, and if you don’t return on time, I’ll double the punishment that’s already coming to you.”

“Yes, Master.”

As he hurries down the street to the market, he wonders what he would have done if Enjolras had said no. If he really would have gone out onto the street, completely naked, just because Enjolras asked. 

He’s not sure. 

A part of him knows Enjolras would never really take it that far, would never make him do it. Would never ask that of him. But that’s the game they play. Enjolras doesn’t want Grantaire to ever say no to him— so he’d never ask something Grantaire couldn’t agree to. 

But the fantasy…

He returns quickly, focusing on his task. On carrying out his orders.

He brings back a roasted chicken, a salad, and some bread, from the places he knows has the best. Nothing but the best for his master, even if Enjolras probably wouldn’t care one way or another. Although in these intimate moments, it sometimes seems like Enjolras is far more enamored of the pleasures of the flesh than he seems. 

Enjolras allows him to stand long enough to make them both a plate, and to remove his clothes again. He goes to the table to eat, but has Grantaire put his plate on the floor. He sits down to eat his supper.

The shame of eating off the ground, like an animal, is only deepened by the fact that Enjolras doesn’t spare him a single glance. He would have thought it would be easier— after all, his shame isn’t being noticed. Isn’t being put as thoroughly on display as it might have been. Yet that makes him wonder what the point is. Why would Enjolras ask this of him, if he doesn’t care enough to look? It’s the same as leaving him kneeling at home for so many hours, waiting. It’s all about power.

Which is what this has always been. Enjolras has all the power, Grantaire has none of it, and they both like it that way.

When they’ve finished eating, Enjolras grips Grantaire’s hair, dragging him to his feet. The touch is firm and painful but it’s the most attention he’s gotten in a long time and it feels like pleasure. 

“I said I was going to punish you,” Enjolras murmurs. His voice is low and quiet. “Take my belt off and hand it to me.”

He does as he’s told, though his hands are shaking.

“Good. Turn around, bend over the table.” 

When Grantaire is facing the right direction, Enjolras places a firm, warm hand on his lower back, pushing him into place. For a moment, he’s right behind Grantaire, close enough that he can feel the hardness in Enjolras’ pants. 

So he is interested, at least in that way, Grantaire reminds himself, and then Enjolras is bringing the belt down hard on his bare ass.

The burst of pain is bright and sharp, and it leaves him gasping, sighing, his mouth open. 

“It was a minor problem. I think five will be sufficient,” Enjolras says. His tone is casual, composed, as he brings the belt down a second time. 

The third stroke crosses both of the new welts forming, and Grantaire can’t stop himself from crying out. Enjolras doesn’t reprimand him, though, so he lets himself yell with the fourth and fifth. Enjolras hasn’t held back at all- both are at full strength, and he’s surely left marks. Grantaire loves it when he does, when he has something to press his fingers into and remember after Enjolras has gone back to more important things.

Enjolras’ hand skirts over the welts, checking subtly for any damage but also appraising his handiwork, pressing his fingers in here and there to hurt Grantaire just a little more. “Maybe I should hurt you a little more. Not punishment, you understand. Just because I like those noises you make. It almost sounds like you’re eager for it.”

Grantaire whimpers.

Grantaire had asked, once, more than a little frightened of the answer, what exactly Enjolras gets out of this arrangement. He’d looked grave and serious for a long time, and then explained that he liked to be in control, and although he often is, although he is the indisputable leader of their little band, he can never be sure, not really sure, who will be there when the time comes. He needs to lead, he explains, knowing that someone will follow.

And Grantaire always will. His obedience, his loyalty, is a certainty. 

He doesn’t need the fancy speeches or fiery rhetoric or careful planning Enjolras uses so elegantly with others. To please him is its own reward. 

“I am,” Grantaire says, quietly. “I do want it, if it’s what you want.”

He doubts Enjolras will— normally when he’s in that sort of mood he comes in angry, brimming with burning rage, not cold and demanding like he is today. And indeed, Enjolras shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I haven’t got the energy to spare on giving you the thrashing you no doubt deserve. But I will need something from you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“On the bed, and don’t move.”

He goes to position himself on hands and knees, Enjolras’ usual preferred position for sex, but Enjolras stops him. “No. On your back.”

He’s not sure what Enjolras’ plan is at first, but he moves onto his back. Enjolras bends over him, tying his wrists up above his head deftly and quickly (something he does as a small favor for Grantaire, who adores being restrained), and then turning around. He grabs the lube off the bedstand and pops it open. He doesn’t push Grantaire’s knees up and back, though, but instead reaches between his own legs. Grantaire is a little dazed on endorphins, but he figures it out.

“Sir, please—“

“Shh. You watch, and be quiet.”

Grantaire is left, wordless, clinging only to his obedience to get him through, as the sight of two of Enjolras’ long, elegant fingers disappearing into the smooth cleft of his ass is almost unbearable. He wants so badly to touch, to take, but if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s to wait.

Besides, he does love being bound, being helpless here. He understands now, the way he’s going to be allowed to serve Enjolras tonight.

He loves when they have penetrative sex. It’s rarer— most of their encounters are a simple exchange of handjobs, or him sucking Enjolras off fast and rough and filthy— but he can’t help but feel like it’s a certain kind of intimacy. Something precious, even if it’s over in five minutes and Enjolras barely glances at him the whole time. 

This, though, is all the more special. This is what he waits for… no. No, he’d wait forever for anything, for a single kiss, the briefest touch, a smile, a glance. Everything he has of Enjolras is a delicious excess.

He tries to tilt his hips up, and suddenly Enjolras’ hand, sticky with lubricant, is on his skin, pressing him back down. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move. You think you’re in charge here?”

“No, sir.”

Enjolras bends over him, catching Grantaire’s lower lip between his teeth in a brutal kiss. He slams his hand down onto Grantaire’s bound wrists, holding him in place, making him stay as he lays claim to Grantaire’s mouth. When he’s dizzy and breathless, Enjolras pulls away just a little, to murmur in his ear, “You didn’t think I was going to let you fuck me, did you?”

He had. It was stupid, he knows, but he’d let himself imagine he was going to be allowed inside Enjolras, a kind of closeness he’d never dreamed of.

“No, I’m going to use you. You’re going to stay completely still, and you’re not going to thrust or move at all, and I’m going to use your cock because it belongs to me just like every part of you does. Isn’t that right, fucktoy?”

“Yes, Master. Please—“

Enjolras laughs a little, presumably at the open-mouthed and wanting stare Grantaire is giving him. “But you have to be good and not move at all.”

“Anything.”

“If you move, I’ll stop. You understand? I’ll leave you tied up and wanting and I’ll just take care of myself, and you won’t get one more touch.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. I want it. Please. Let me. Please-“

Enjolras always loves being able to reduce him to incoherency. The babble of words, the plea, pouring out from his bitten-raw lips is clearly having something of an effect, for all Enjolras only answers, “Shut up. This isn’t about what you want.”

Grantaire obeys, even though that’s not strictly true. Because in a strange, wonderful way, it is about what he wants, since what he wants is for Enjolras to be happy, and what Enjolras wants is for Grantaire to want to please him, and it’s all a dangerous, exquisite cycle, one that he hopes to stay caught in forever. 

Enjolras turns to face away from him, towards the wall, and all Grantaire can see of him is the long cascade of his golden hair, down his shoulders, and the expanse of his cream-white back. He watches, spellbound, as Enjolras slowly climbs up over him. He does it with such grace, like he does everything: walking down the street, beating a man bloody for the sake of his cause, orating before the people, turning the pages of his book, and now climbing atop Grantaire and letting his beautiful body sink down, down, down onto him.

He keeps himself still, not even a tremor as the warm perfect pleasure of Enjolras settles around him. He tries to look at the other man moving as through a distance, like a painting, lovely and faraway, but it’s almost impossible when he is so tantalizingly close. Little details keep popping out at him, and he can’t make up his mind whether they’re chaste and pure or filthily intimate.

He traces the freckles on Enjolras’ lower back with his eyes, the little triangle of them, one-two-three. He wishes, more than anything, the privilege to touch them with a fingertip as well, a claiming somehow deeper than even being buried in him could be. He can see Enjolras’ shoulders rising and falling with the effort as he rides him in slow, sinuous movements, a single drop of sweat falling down his neck, and imagines being allowed to kiss it away, if it would taste as pure and perfect as morning dew. Enjolras’ hair, bouncing freely down his back, smells sweet and warm, like vanilla, and it’s overwhelming.

He isn’t even really tied up. The belt around his hands is nothing, wrapped loosely around him— he could pull his wrists free in a moment if he tried. He could have his hands all over Enjolras, touching him, holding his hips, thrusting into him, making love to him, sweet and tender and mutual. 

He wants it so badly, but even more than he wants that, he wants to do as he’s told. He’s mad with wanting, and with having, starvation and surfeit, everything and nothing. 

Enjolras’ movements are deliciously, horribly slow. He’s grateful for it: any faster and the temptation to move, to chase after his own orgasm, to take, might creep in. But this steady, incremental motion, more grinding than riding, wouldn’t be enough to bring Grantaire close even if he were to let himself focus on his own wants.

Which isn’t what this is about. This is about Enjolras, about his pleasure— and how Grantaire wants to let himself imagine what his beautiful face might look like right now, red lips falling open, blue eyes wide, pale skin flushed with…

With something. Pleasure, desire, simple exertion, he isn’t sure what Enjolras is feeling right now because he isn’t permitted to look. The only thing he can do is imagine, and that’s enough. That freedom, at least, Enjolras allows him.

There’s a contradiction in this. Bound, held down, and utterly claimed, he feels somehow free. Free of the words and thoughts that normally stand between them, free of his own stammering foolishness, free of anything that could go wrong. Free to be a slave, he thinks, but a willing one.

Enjolras is moaning now, lovely little noises. Grantaire wonders if one day he’ll be allowed to join his mouth to Enjolras’ and swallow up those delicious sounds. But for now hearing them is enough, is a kind of celestial music.

It’s a good thing his obedience keeps him silent, he thinks wryly, because if he’d said that out loud he could hardly fault Enjolras for the resulting disgust. More than a slave in love: a fool, too, but at least a fool who has learned how to bite his tongue and know when he has more than he can ever merit. 

A fool who loves this man, and desires him, and belongs to him, body and soul, for whatever use Enjolras finds him worthy for.

And if the use Grantaire would prefer isn’t an option— if he can’t have what he wants most of all— he won’t question what he does have. 

He’d never want this to stop. Being taken by Enjolras, claimed, used, that is wonderful. If his fantasies were all to come true, Enjolras would be just as demanding, just as in-control, in bed. It’s just that the rest of the time…

Well, there’s no use thinking about that, except to distract him, and it doesn’t seem like that’ll be necessary for much longer. Enjolras is gasping now, soft, ragged little noises, and he’s moving slower as he grinds down on Grantaire. 

Grantaire imagines touching him, cupping his soft, warm ass in his hands, guiding his movements, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it. If he does, or even if he lets himself focus too much on the pleasure of this moment, he might lose his control, and he can’t do that. He has to follow his simple orders.

It isn’t long, after that. Enjolras moves faster, and faster, and then slows, his thrusts finally stilling. 

For a moment, he just sits still on top of Grantaire, and it’s almost too much to bear. He’s delightfully warm and tight, still, despite the fucking he’s just given himself, and the sound of him panting to get his breath back and the sight of his pale shoulders shaking with pleasure is overwhelming. Grantaire could come, right now, without a single thrust, if only he were given the word.

Enjolras pulls off and turns to face him.

He looks just as perfect as Grantaire had let himself briefly envision. His golden hair is tousled around his face, shining like a bright halo, and his cheeks are deeply flushed, and his eyes are still that deeper shade of blue they turn when he’s really, truly happy.

Grantaire allows himself to think ‘I did this to him.’ Oh, it may have required very little intervention on his part. In all honesty, all he really did was lie there and play the living toy. Any cock might have done as well. It isn’t as though the act required any special intimacy that only he could provide. And yet, the fact remains that he is the one Enjolras chose, and he is the one that put that look on his face.

“R, will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

Enjolras smiles, and kisses him softly on the lips. It’s a precious moment, gentle and tender, and Grantaire files the memory away for safekeeping in his mind, in his heart, where he can hold onto it in the moments when he’s lowest. “Wait?”

He nods. “How long?”

“Til the morning?” Enjolras seems hesitant now, in the wake of his orgasm, like he’s ashamed to ask Grantaire for this, to deny himself. 

Grantaire permits himself a small indulgence, and asks, “Would that please you?”

“It shames me a little to admit how much. I can be a most selfish lover, since you allow me such free reign.”

And Enjolras does reign, though he would hate to think how truly he does rule, over Grantaire’s body and sole. “Then I would wait forever,” he confesses, hoping Enjolras will accept his sacrifice in word alone and not actions. He would be sorry if he were never allowed release again, but he would accept the dictate as willingly as a pagan would the command of his mysterious god.

“I think til morning will do nicely. But now I am weary, and I would go to bed— not in the euphemistic sense, now.”

They clean themselves for bed perfunctorily and silently, stripping off the remaining clothes, clearing the bed of the sweatier blanket and switching it for a fresh one, washing faces and stomachs— Grantaire is studiously careful not to touch his swollen cock more than necessary as he wipes it off— before falling into bed.

Enjolras often stays the night after they’ve had intercourse. After all, much of his reason for coming is his insomnia, his need for a release. There’s no reason for him to squander his relaxation by tramping back across Paris, when Grantaire has a rather indolently comfortable bed right here.

Besides, Grantaire treasures the time they spend in bed together, when the main act is over. A sleepy Enjolras is an Enjolras who permits small intimacies, or even requests them.

As he does tonight, turning his naked, sated body into Grantaire’s arms. He lays his golden head against Grantaire’s chest, and allows the other man to wind his thick fingers into those fine curls, stroking them. He even presses a little kiss to the bare skin of his neck and then says, “R, read me something?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Oh, whatever. I just like your voice. It’s so soothing.”

Grantaire allows himself to smile at the compliment. “As you command.”

He doesn’t want to stir to search out a book, though, so takes a moment to find an appropriate passage in his memory.

“Being your slave,” he begins, quietly, in English, “What should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?”

Enjolras’ English is very poor indeed. He won’t recognize the words, so Grantaire is free to let that greatest of foreign poets do the speaking for him, in this where he is too much a coward to speak and Enjolras too much a statue to listen.

“I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, til you require.”

“’s nice,” Enjolras mumbles, already half-asleep. “What does it mean?”

“Just an old poem,” Grantaire says, and continues, “Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour  
whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, nor think the bitterness of absence sour, when you have bid your sovereign once adieu.”

At that, the lone word Enjolras might recognize in the poem, Grantaire looks down at him, to realize the other man is fast asleep in his arms. He looks utterly peaceful, so lovely and so vulnerable.

Grantaire whispers the last few lines to him. “Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought save, where you are how happy you make those.”

He leans down, stealing a kiss from Enjolras’ soft, slack lips, and thinks he sees a smile on his lovely, sleeping face.

“So true a fool is love that in your will, though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.”


End file.
